Quell
by Hbrooks
Summary: My name is Haymitch Abernathy, and I am seventeen years old. I won the fiftieth hunger games, but at a price. This is my story.
1. Waiting

The loaf of bread is hot under my shirt, but I hold it close all the same, hoping the baker didn't see me. Hopefully the lump above my navel isn't as conspicuous as it feels. When I'm sure I haven't been noticed, I slip out the door, down the cobblestone sidewalk and into an alley. A stray cat snaps at me but I ignore it.

It's very cold out this morning, and unusually quiet. Usually the street's filled with boots and voices and the quiet hum of conversation, but today, this is not so. Can't say I'm surprised. The day before The Reaping isn't a time for talking or bartering. Mostly it's a day filled with selfish hoping, staring down at your feet and hoping, just hoping that this year—this year will be another lucky break—this year will be someone else. It's fucked up, though, hoping for some other kid to get carted off to the slaughterhouse. You stand there watching them walking up to the platform knowing damn well that nobody is going to save them, knowing that it's twenty-three to one that they'll die. If they're lucky (what an absurd adjective), it'll be a swift death. Just a quick sword to the heart, or maybe a falling tree or an avalanche. But more often than not, we're watching them suffer, feeling pity for them and denying that disgusting little flicker of joy in the back of our head; the voice that whispers _at least it's not you_.

I slip through the near-deserted town square, passing the silent, cold buildings.

They seem especially unfriendly today.

It sounds weird, but they are. It's like today they're staring me down, blank and faceless. _Tomorrow_, they tell me almost confidentially, _tomorrow could be your death sentence. They will look at you like meat, they will size you up, they will be wondering, betting on how you will die: spear to the head? Starvation? Exposure? All of those things, that will be you._

I hold the bread tighter, blow the dark fringe from my eyes. It's always in the way, always dirty, always messy. Always a reminder to both myself and others of what I am—Seam material. That's all. I'm the coal dust everyone tries so hard to scrape out from under their nails, but no matter how long you scrub, there I am, stubborn, sullied and permanently _there_.

The nicer part of town dissipates quickly- the houses steadily shrink and shrivel like old men: the porches sag, the shingles flake and the paint peels. I pass the community home—the place my siblings and I lived until Uncle sobered up enough to be pronounced a legal guardian. Life with him isn't a living hell, but it sure as hell isn't heaven, either—he's a recovering morphling addict _and _a practicing alcoholic, and mostly he's just useless. He doesn't hit us or yell at us like the people at the home; he just lies around taking space. I didn't mind it until Kellen and Suri died, because they actually tried keeping the place up. My brother supported us in the mines and my sister did the washing for some of the wealthier merchants. But then the forty-seventh Hunger Games happened—the odds were not in the favor of the Abernathy's that year.

They certainly fucking weren't.

Now I'm in my neighborhood. We're right in the center of the Seam, the veritable gutter of Twelve. The wind blows all of the coal dust, all of the fumes, all of the smoke here: follow the trail of pollution and you have arrived at your destination. Honestly, I'm sure my lungs now have a thorough coating and finishing of ash; my breath smells of my potbelly stove. I'm glad I'm used to it though—I have to, since I'll be down in the mines in another year. Then maybe I can do better than stealing. I would do more if I could—even try my hand at the woods, but the electric fence is on most days, and at night there are the wild dogs. I'm worth more to Tanier and Uncle as a thief than a corpse.

Uncle's house is actually not all that small—it's this lumbering, depressing old barn of a house, but half of it is unlivable due to an asbestos leak and a cave-in brought on by an infestation of termites. But it's my home, and a better home than the community one, at that. We get stuff from a merchant friend every month, and Tanier gets various care packages from the district for his condition, so add that to my stolen food and there's usually supper on the table every night. Anyway, the half of the building that we _can_ live in is insulated well-enough and the four rooms, while crowded with all of Uncle's shit, are homey and comfortable enough, though we _do_ have a bit of a problem with mice.

I ascend the creaky steps of the front porch, ducking down to avoid the overhanging branches from the gnarled old Mountain Maple that sits in our yard—it's roots have made the sidewalk crooked.

"Tanny, I'm home!" I call as I slam the door behind me, kicking the cinders from the treads of my boots. "I have returned with the fruits of-"

"Tell me you didn't steal it, Haymitch."

His voice is tired, as it often is—he's long-since given up dissuading me of felony.

"Of course not—just about as legal as possible," is my answer, though I know he can see through my ruse as easily as looking through a sheet of wet silk held up in front of a lamp. He's good at that kind of stuff. I slip through the living room (where Uncle is passed out on the threadbare couch) and into my brother's room. Tanier got polio eight months ago, just weeks before his thirteenth birthday—he'd always been ailing, always a bit more apt to getting sick than everyone else. But this time, it hit him hard. He's paralyzed from the waist down now.

"I don't like you stealing."

He's looking at me from bed, leaning forward from the pillow he had been propped up on. He looks a lot like me—he's got the olive skin, the dark curls, the brows always knitted into either frustration or anxiety, except he's so thin and delicate—breakable. And he's got Dad's eyes, the grey ones. The color of tin cans. Mine are brown.

"I know. I know." I sit down at the foot of his bed and break off a hunk of the bread. "I won't have to do it much longer. Just a few more months and I can work."

He accepts it and turns it over in his hands a few times. "I'm just scared you won't come home."

He's right, of course. I've been caught before by a friendlier peacekeeper, and I got away with a black eye and a terse warning. Next time could be worse.

I sigh and tear off a bit of bread for myself. "Well don't be. That's what I do: I come home. Every time. I promise."

We're quiet for a little while, sitting and eating and pretending that we don't know what the other is thinking. But finally he speaks and I'm forced to acknowledge it, this elephant in the room.

"The Fiftieth Quarter Quell."

I try not to let my shoulders stiffen, to betray my fear to him. I'm not allowed to be scared. "Yeah." The bread's starting to taste sour in my mouth and I'm suddenly not hungry anymore. In a few minutes I'll have to turn the television on. Mandatory. To find out what 'surprises' the capitol has in store for us tomorrow.

"What if they pick one of us?" This is something he asks almost every year—he's been dead terrified of it since the forty-seventh games. He won't tell me straight, but it's obvious. He wakes up screaming some nights, telling Suri, _not the cornucopia, not the bloodbath, just run away!_—shouting at Kellen to _turn around! Turn around, Kellen, God, turn around, she has a knife!_ They wake me up, they make me reel, because that's the only time when I ever hear the true terror in Tanier's voice. I hate it.

"You know I wouldn't let them take you," I told him. "It's not as if you can…" I trail off and look away from him, feeling ashamed. I know how much he hates to be reminded of his immobility.

"No, I don't mean me." He doesn't need to say any more: I know what he means. If I get chosen, he'll be alone, the last Abernathy. Of course Uncle would take care of him, but the old man could hardly bathe himself, much less take care of such a wry, sickly little shit.

To break the awkward silence, I get up and switch on our shabby little television, adjusting the knob to get rid of as much static as possible. Some Capitol programme is just coming to an end. The host, a plump woman with blue hair and skin the color of cherries is gushing to the guest about how glow-in-the-dark contact lenses changed her life. The show ends and a brief burst of static lights up the set, and then President Snow illuminates the screen. I feel my fists clenching, but Tanier's hand upon mine helps me control my anger.

He's standing at a podium in front of the Capitol Building, his pale fingers stark against the iron, and I notice that there is a young boy dressed in white behind him, carrying the little wooden box that contains the Card. The thing that will determine our fates.

Well, the anthem plays and then Snow begins. "Good evening to all of Panem. As I'm sure all of you are aware, the fiftieth Anniversary of the Hunger Games is tomorrow, the anniversary of the unity of our country…" He spirals into the usual drawl: the Dark Days of rebellion, how the Capitol pulled us out of anarchy and into the light. All the usual bullshit. "On the twenty-fifth aniversary, as a reminder to all who took part in the uprising, every District was to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it." I shudder, hoping that whatever they had planned for us this year wouldn't be as horrible as indirectly choosing which child to murder.

"But now," he continues, removing the card from the box. "On the Fiftieth year of peace and prosperity, we will have an even more special celebration. This year, twice as many children from each district are required to take part in the Games. Four tributes in all, two boys and two girls."

It takes me a minute to realize I'm gawking. This can't be happening. Fifty years of this shit, and they were making it worse. Much worse than anybody who had contributed to the uprisings would have ever thought, I'm sure. My fist is clenching even tighter now and I feel the channel-changer's plastic creak in protest.

Tanier's hand has moved to my shoulder. "Haymitch, please, it'll be all right-"

I suddenly jump to my feet, throwing the remote to the floor. "No, Tan, no it won't be. Even if we don't get called this year, what about the kids who will? Four! Four- not two,_ four_ innocent children are going to get slaughtered like sheep! And this year, just like every fucking year, it won't be us that benefit—it won't be the people who need it. It won't be the latchkey kids, the pariahs, the homeless, the ones like you and me! It will be a career—another one of the Capitol's fucking lapdogs, just like every single other goddamn year!" My fist flies out and hits the drywall and I stalk out of the house.

The smog-choked sky had turned the color of ash; the horizon getting darker and darker every second. I almost want to turn back and apologize to him, but I just can't bring myself to stop moving. I know where I'm going; my thinking place that's as far away from it all as possible. I tear through the knee-high scrubs and grass in the lot a few leagues off, the barbed stems tugging at the strands of loose fabric of my trousers. I jump over gnarled logs and sidestep patches of puke-colored toadstools, and immediately begin to relax when I see the gigantic oak tree that stands only a few yards away from the humming of the electric fence. Every day after school, all four of us would race here, scaling the thick trunk and leaping from branch to branch. I didn't usually win; I got second or third most of the time. But that was before my parents died... before Kellen and Suri were taken away... before Tanier got sick.

Now, it's just me.

"I knew I'd find you here."

I start and stumble backward as several forms drop out of the leafy boughs above me and onto the ground.

"Look, Hazelle! You scared the shit out of him!"

"She seems to have that affect on people, don't you, sis?"

"Shuttup, Brayan!"

I can't help smiling as my friends approach me and I try to smile, but they can see right through it.

"You heard the announcement, didn't you?" Jove says.

I nod, giving up on my pathetically cheerful façade.

"What was it?" Hazelle asks.

I glare at Hoss. "You shouldn't let her skip the announcements! You both could get in trouble."

"What're you looking at me for? It was her idea; always is."

Hazelle shrugs. She may be just a few months younger than Tanier, but she's already a little too feisty for her own good. Then again, the pot shouldn't call the kettle black.

We stride over to the base of the tree and sit, leaning against the rough bark and staring out at the scraggily grey grass. Grey... like everything else in this goddamn place.

"It could be anyone, you know," Jove says softly, gazing at a fiddlehead he had picked from the ground. It's one of the few plants that actually contains a little bit of pigment in the entire meadow. "After all, it's four out of hundreds…"

"How's Tanier?" Brayan cuts in, trying to change the subject. He's always trying to make things seem far better than they are. What do you call those kind of people...optimists? I suppose that makes me a pessimist. Glass if half empty… well, shit, the glass is completely empty on Reaping day, fuck that.

"Yeah, he's... Tanier. Snarky as ever," I say.

Jove Hawthorne bumps me with his shoulder, his straight, dark hair falling over his eyes. "Sounds like somebody else I know."

"I wonder who?" Hazelle replies a little too-innocently. "I honestly wonder who he gets it from."

I scowl. "I guess it's my fault he's lost his innocence."

Hazelle's face falls, and she looks back down at the ground. "I'm sorry, Haymitch, I didn't mean it like that..."

I sigh, trying not to gag on the sooty air. It's their fault this is happening. It's not their fault that I have to steal to support my brother and I. It's not their fault that the world is slowly falling apart.

It's not any of our faults.


	2. Propaganda

Sunlight falls across my closed eyelids, and I blink awake. Honestly, I'm surprised the sun can even filter through the coal dust on the dirty pane of my bedroom window. Tanier's breathing deeply in the bed across the room—he's fast asleep. Good, he can have a few more minutes of peace before it stars. I've always liked watching my little brother sleep. It's one of the only times his face isn't knitted together in a scowl, though I guess if he heard me say that, he'd tell me to speak for myself. I'm sure as hell not a ray of sunshine, either.

My first thought is to glance over at the clock: 7 AM. As I sit up I grunt and groggily wipe the sleep from my eyes before standing and heading to the kitchen. Breakfast time. I toast two slices of bread on the hearth and crack the three robin eggs I found in the edge of the meadow into Mother's old frying pan. The springs of Tanier's bed squeak and I know he smells food—I'd almost expect him to come racing in, but that's silly, of course. Uncle's still passed out on the sofa, so I'll just leave his share on the counter.

When I start to bring the toast and eggs to my brother's bedside, his stern voice stops me. "Haymitch... can I sit at the table today...?" _...Because this will probably be our last meal together before you get chosen and sent to the Capitol to die._ Right.

"Of course, Tan," I say, trying to sound chipper and…well...not bitter. By the way he's looking at me, I can tell I suck at it. But still, I scoop his frail body up in my arms easily, and set him down in the rickety chair next to mine. We eat our breakfast silently, pondering the outcome of the name drawing. What if both Tanier _and_ I were called? What if it's Jove or Brayan? And what about Hazelle?

Or what if another twelve-year-old is picked, just like last year? That had been a truly terrible time. Both tributes were hardly grown—just babies. The girl's birthday had been the day before.

But to be honest, I'm not worried for Tanier. I'm there to take his place, and if both of us are called, well, I have a feeling that at least somebody will go up for him. After all, Jove had promised. Anyway, I don't know the criteria for tributes, though I'm pretty sure being paralyzed might be less than satisfactory for the viewers in the Capitol.

After breakfast, we turn on the television and flip through the channels until we land on the cartoons. We sit together on his bed, and even now that solemn boy still, occasionally, laughs at that crackly old screen. And then, as if it had been only seconds, it's time to go to the town square.

"Your crutches," I say as I toss him the pathetic wooden sticks. I've never been much good at woodshop, but I had still managed to whittle him a pair of wooden crutches for special occasions. Tanier isn't _completely_ crippled; if he had some support, he could hobble about for a little while without me carrying him. He hates it when I carry him, and I must say that I don't like the way he squirms that much, either. But, he's my baby brother. I love him to pieces, even when he's being surly.

We make our way down the cobblestone streets and occasionally we meet the eyes of other hopeless people. Sometimes they offer a smile full of pity, but mostly they avert their gaze, knowing full well that they could be looking into the eyes of the next victim.

The children from ages twelve to eighteen are separated by gender, and then again by year. I stand with the boys of my year, and I feel a bit of comfort as Jove falls in next to me. Brayan is behind me with the other fifteen's, and Hazelle is a row behind him. Then there's Tanier just behind her. All the younger children look terrified, and then there's the older ones, who look numb or bitter. The ones like me.

It's now that a rotund man with red corkscrew curls, our usual announcer, putters up to the stage. Lucious Trinket. A young girl, maybe the age of six or seven follows closely behind him, clutching the tail of his suit. She's his daughter, I think her name is Effie. Not that I care.

Well, Lucious and the mayor start going on about the dark ages once again, showing the usual video, but I tune out for a while. After all, it's the same shit every year—it's not as if I have to worry about missing anything important.

When the propaganda has ended and the speeches finished, it's finally the moment I have been dreading: the name drawing. And as I look out across the platform that the mayor and the others occupy, I realize how truly miserable our chances are. There are no mentors for us this year: the only other winner, a wispy old woman by the name of Fade, died of a heart attack two years ago. Whoever is chosen this year will be alone.

So, as is the custom every year, District Twelve is fucked.

My thoughts are jarred, however, because Lucious Trinket has cried out an excited "ladies first!" and started to rummage through the slips of paper. His manicured nails brush each name, touch a life that can so easily be crushed if chosen. And then,

"Twinge Leaflit."

I hear a small noise, and turn to the fourteen's: there's a small girl with long, brown hair and paper white skin. She shakes her head, and breaks away from the crowd, walking forward. She hardly looks old enough to be twelve, but nobody offers to take her place.

"Well," Lucious trills, his odd Capitol accent distorting his words. "Here's to our first tribute to the Quarter Quell! What a lucky little dear. Come stand by me, darling." He pats the girl's thin shoulder. She is definitely Seam material—even though she's lacking the facial characteristics, I've seen her around the Gutter.

But Twinge is already being shuttled off to the center of the podium and Lucious has taken his place by the boy's container.

"Our next lucky child is... Tavin Charfade!"

No. He's a thirteen, too. I recognize him: he's one of Tanier's friends—the boy had even been over to our house for lunch once, a very long time ago. But Haymitch Abernathy never forgets a face, and now that I see him, trembling as he walks up towards the podium, I know I am right. He's tall for his age, but also horribly thin with hollow brown eyes and dark skin. The air is quiet for a moment, but then it's broken by the words seldom heard in District Twelve.

"No. I volunteer to take his place."

A gasp of dismay echoes through the crowd as the source of the soft voice steps forward, pulling his little brother behind his long, slender legs.

"Oh..." Lucious says, biting his lip. "Well, son, I suppose that's alright. Nothing wrong with a few more eager souls to play in the games, am I right? What is you name?"

"Ansel Charfade, sir."

Our escort starts and does a double take when he see's the volunteer's face for the first time. His glassy, pale blue eyes stare back blankly, because sixteen-year-old Ansel has been blind since birth and everyone in our district knows of him, but not because of this. He is easily one of the kindest people you could ever hope to meet, despite being raised, as I had been, in the unforgiving arms of the community home. But unlike me, neither he nor his brother has made it out.

Lucious seems taken aback. "Are... are you sure, dear? What with your condition and-"

"I'm sure."

For a moment, a look of sorrow actually passes over Lucious Trinket's vacant eyes. But he gets over himself and motions with his hand for Ansel to join the others. But Tavin clutches onto his brother's arm, tears beginning to run tracks through his dirt-smudged cheeks.

"No! No, Ansel, don't! Don't go! You'll die! You wouldn't hurt anybody, anything! I know you! Let me go!"

Ansel turns and embraces the boy with surprising precision, his strong arms enclosing round his brother's frame. I feel a sudden tug at my heart, because for a moment, I don't see the Charfade's.

I see Tanier and I.

"Sshh, it's going to be okay, Tavvie. Go back to your line, I'll be all right." He's lying. I can tell. But after burying his face into the flannel of Ansel's shirt, the boy nods and shuffles back to where he stood before. With a mournful whimper, he wipes his sleeve across his nose and sniffles.

Presently, Ansel rejects the hand held out by one of the cameramen and easily ascends the stairs up to the platform, his back tense and his face stoic. I could see everything on the screens.

"Well," titters Lucious. "What an exciting day we've had! My goodness, everyone wants to be a part of the excitement, don't they? Now, the next lady tribute is..." _Not Hazelle. Not Hazelle_, I plead inside my head, my fingers twitching inside my trouser pockets. They are the only pair that isn't torn. Those and a semi-clean dress shirt are as close to presentable as I get. "...Maysilee Donner! Come on up, honey!"

And then her face is illuminated on the screen, her blue eyes wide and her mouth agape. Her sister and one of her merchant friends are holding onto her. But she breaks away from them, kissing them each on the cheek and makes her way to the platform. The light catches in her fair hair and the small badge pinned to her shirt as I scrutinized it from the screen. It looks like a small bird in mid flight, trapped in a golden ring.

Interesting.

That girl... she really is quiet pretty. A heart-shaped face and glossy hair that falls to her shoulders; Tall for her age, too. Just a few inches shorter than I, and only a year younger.

"And lets see who's next!" Lucious continues as he digs into the sphere one last time. I close my eyes and heave in a big breath of the smoky air. "...Haymitch Abernathy!"

No…no…no! No! This can't be happening. I swear to God, this can't be happening. It feels like I've dunked my head into icy water; every word spoken sounds far away and refracted. My nerves endings feel like they're on fire.

"Haymitch Abernathy?"

I see my face on the plasma screens. My eyes are shocked. My jaw's hanging. My eyebrows are raised so far that my fringe obscures them from view. I hear Tanier cry out, but I shake myself and step forward. I lock eyes with Jove. His face is scared. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but I shake my head and continue forward.

"There we are, dear!" Lucious says to me, patting my shoulder, then recoiling when a layer of coal dust is dislodged from the fabric. "Well, aren't you a lucky ducky? The last name called, too! Now you can be part of the excitement, sweetie." _Yeah, lucky my fucking ass._ "Now, let's hear it for our lovely new tributes for the next hunger games!"

A pitiful applause of about three or four people rattles through the courtyard, and then Lucious motions the Mayor forward, who begins to recite the treaty of treason. I don't listen. Let me wallow around in self-pity inside, so long as the cameras don't see.

And then we shake hands. I shake Twinge's first. It's tiny and cold, fragile and pale. I look into her big, hazel eyes and see panic, but when she realizes that I saw her emotion, her eyes become blank and she looks away. Next I shake Ansel's hand. It is strong and reassuring, a rich brown against mine. Then it's Maysilee's turn. Hers is small and warm, and when I look at her, my heart drops: she's looking at me with regret! Regret, of all things! Regret that she's thinking of the different ways she can murder me, probably. And despite this, I suddenly feel like I never want to let go of her hand.

We turn and face the rest of our district in a line.

It has begun.


	3. Unjust

"Promise me you won't piss off Uncle too much."

Tanier looks up from my shoulder. "Who died and made you boss?" he asks weakly, picking at a piece of gravel on my sleeve.

"Don't worry, Tan," I say, glancing around the plush paneling of the Town Hall's farewell room. "I'll come home, I promise. That's what brothers do, remember? We come home. We always come home."

Tanier nods, pulling away from me long enough to stare me down, his face tense. "Damn straight you will, Haymitch, else I'll kick your sorry ass from here to District Three."

I smile and ruffle his dark hair. "It's going to be fine. I can fight." I give him a few gentle punches to his thin chest. "Remember all those times I fist fought at the community home? I can put that to good use now, just wait."

"Hurry the fuck up; the booze at home isn't getting any colder and I sure as hell ain't getting younger."

"Love you too, Uncle."

The old man scowls at first, then grins and comes forward. He's probably only about fifty-five to sixty years old, but he looks like he's seventy something. His skin is ashen and wrinkly, and his chin is covered with a thick layer of stubble and five o'clock shadow, since he can't manage to grow a real beard. His hair, which is beginning to grey, is as bristly as the quills of a porcupine, and his eyes, hidden under dark, furrowed brows are bloodshot and the color of cold iron, surrounded by dark hangover circles. It scares me, how people can become like this.

Tanier embraces me one last time, burying his face in my neck as Uncle rummaged around in his pocket. After a moment, he retrieves a necklace with a single tooth hanging from the dark string. He tosses it at me, and I look at him, puzzled.

He glares at me. "Dumbass, put it on. It's your District Token. Belonged to your Dad. It was your older brother's token, too—wore it into the arena. Guess that doesn't make it lucky, since he... you know." He gestures a filthy finger at the pendent. "That there is the tooth of one of the wild dogs out there in the woods. Your father and I killed it on one of our hunting trips when we were your age."

I raise my eyebrows, surprised. "You and Dad actually hunted? Outside the District Limits?"

He smirked. "Sure did. It was our way to tell those Capitol bastards to go fuck themselves."

I put it round my neck, fingering the ivory tooth. "Thank... thank you, Uncle. You're not that bad when you're not wasted."

He winks. "Who says I'm not?"

The guards open the door, and what remains of my family is herded out and I'm alone.

Next come my friends, though I can hardly look up before Hazelle charges into me. I put my arms round her, my throat tightening as her dark hair falls down her shoulder and I'm reminded that I may never see it again. Brayan and Jove sit on the velvet couch next to me, Brayan resting a hand on my shoulder.

"Kick some ass out there, Mitch," he says, giving me a reassuring pat on the back. "Fight like you did in the home and no-one can stop you."

"Yeah, you'll do fine," Jove adds, smiling.

I nod, sighing heavily. "I wish I could share your enthusiasm."

Hazelle sniffles. "You'll win, Haymitch, you will. Make our District proud,"

Just then, the guards come in and take them away from me, and I'm left alone in this disgustingly ornate room. All alone so I can feel the real fear. I could be dead in several days. I could be lying on the arena ground, bleeding to death in less than a week.

Now all I can do is bury my head in my hands and wait.

Everything is a blur for most of that day. We get herded out of the rooms into the automobile. None of us have ever been in one. Throngs of reporters and television crews await us, poised and ready at the train depot. As we get out, I see my face illuminated up on a large screen, and I straighten my back and set my jaw, trying to look more intimidating, And then as suddenly as we were thrown into all the noise and flashing lights, we're on the train— silent, peaceful, calm.

"You're rooms are down the hall," Lucious says as soon as the wheels begin moving beneath us, the gentle cadence of the engine vibrating through the walls. "Dinner is served in a half-an-hour, and there are clothes in the closets."

We trudge down the hall numbly and open the doors to our separate quarters. Despite my apprehension, I'm shocked into a smile when I see my room. A creamy carpet covers the floor, a large, queen-sized waterbed complete with embellished mahogany frame and plush pillows sits by the window, and an elephantine walk-in closet calls to me on the right wall. On my left is the door to the bathroom, which is probably even more fantastic than the bedroom. The floor is a shiny tile, and a large bath/shower, marble sink and ivory toilet stand invitingly. Is it awkward to call a toilet inviting? Perhaps.

First, I throw my clothes off and take a long shower, ignoring the knock at the door and Lucious's irksome voice shouting that dinner was ready. Fuck dinner, I want to shower. We don't have hot water in the Seam; if you want a warm bath you either have to boil it yourself. But here... there is so much amazing shit in this shower! First off, the shower head has so many goddamn options; shower, jet, massage, extra powerful massage, triangle, rectangle, sprinkler, and any other ridiculous option you can think of.

After all, what Capitol citizen could survive with polygonal shower patterns?

There's a whole set of buttons on the inside, and I take turns jabbing each one of them to see what they do. Presently, I am bombarded with sheets of scented soaps, from lavender to cranberry to buttercream to strawberry until I smell like a goddamn cake, jets coming up out of nowhere from all sides and squirted me with alternating patterns of freezing and scalding water. The lights dim and then all these rainbow ones start pulsing from the sides of the shower and I feel as if I've overdosed on some kind of narcotic.

I manage to shut the madness off after several agonizing minutes of attack, and scramble out of the death trap. When I dry myself of and get the worst of the foam out of my ears, I stumble into the walk in closet and pick out grey kecks, a white shirt and a comfortable cardigan-like article that's made of some sort of knitted material that feels incredibly soft against my skin.

By the time I amble into the dining car, everyone is already onto their second course. I sit down awkwardly between Ansel and Maysilee and begin wolfing down whatever is put onto my plate. First there's char grilled Groosling, covered in basil and seasoned with onions and mushroom sauce. Maysilee seems annoyed by my lack of manners, but the other two Seam kids are eating in the same way I am— I guess merchant kids are fed daily.

The next meal is a decadent salad filled with foreign lettuce and cauliflower, covered in a mulberry dressing. The rest of the main course I don't remember, but what really stands out is the desert. Even though my stomach is about to burst by the time we get to it, I devour it all the same. It's a series of rich, dark chocolate truffles filled with chocolate mousse and white chocolate flecks along with a pitcher of hot cocoa with marshmallows. When the entire meal is finished, I sit back, feeling as if I'm about to vomit. Ansel is licking his fingers, his cloudy eyes filled with delight. "By far the most amazing meal I've ever eaten," he says, his voice wistful.

"Agreed."

I'm surprised when I realize that that is my voice. I'm not supposed to be socializing with the other tributes! I might have to kill them in a few days!

Lucious clears his throat, glaring at me. He makes a motion with his own napkin, indicating that I have food on my face. Instead of following his advice, I wipe my sleeve across my mouth and burp. He narrows his eyes, adjusts curls and returns to the roll he was finishing. Maysilee lets out a small giggle despite herself, and I hear Ansel chuckle. Twinge manages a small smile, and joins in on my defiance by putting her elbows on the table and cupping her chin in her palms and Fuse wipes his fingers on the tablecloth.

Lucious flounces to his feet with a look of disgust. "Well, it's been a big, big day today," he says in his odd accent. "But tomorrow's even bigger, so you best get some sleep, if you're able to tear yourself away from smearing god-knows-what all over the linen." He lets out an indignant huff and stomps off, but the heel of one of his shoes breaks off half way across the room and, with injured dignity, he manages to hobble the rest of the way.

Despite of ourselves, we all burst into laughter.

"_Aaaoooh, not the linens, please_!" Ansel wails, mimicking the capitol accent perfectly.

Maysilee smiles. "_So selfish, watching as my heel breaks. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Heathens_!"

I laugh, and then catch myself. These people could be plotting about the numerous ways of killing me right now. Well fuck it—two can play at that game. I'm coming home.

After everyone disperses, I decide to take a look at the many extravagant rooms; might as well take advantage of the luxury while I can. Most are just the tribute and staff's rooms, but I also pass through a fancy kitchen, a sort of parlor with a small baby grand piano and a duvet, and then into a dimly lit, rather cozy room. I can see the flickering of a T.V. screen and hear the disjointed voice of a reporter. Ansel and Maysilee are sitting in front of it, the girl nestled in a plush sofa, the boy on a settee, a quilt draped across his broad shoulders. The screen illuminates their bodies; the blue light emanating from the television frames the planes of their faces, one pale and one dark. They both look up when I enter the small room, and Ansel scoots over so I can take a seat next to him.

"They're announcing the other district's tributes," Maysilee murmurs, taking the remote and clicking up the volume.

"And from the way they talk, there's definitely some tough careers this year," Ansel adds. "Though it's hard to know for sure; T.V. doesn't really do it for me."

I look at the screen, which is clear and enhanced, unlike the shitty static on the one at home, and I realize that he's right. Especially one of the girls from 1. She is tall and muscular with almond eyes and dark hair pulled into the most elaborate braids I have ever seen. She's beautiful, but I can't help shuddering, because when one of the reporters buttonholes her and asks her what her weapon of choice is, she answers with cold excitement: "The ax. It's lethal, it's sharp, and it can maim you so fast, it's not even funny."

I see Maysilee shiver. "She's charming."

I nod dumbly. "Yeah; what a catch."

There are so many kids this year, forty-eight of them, and it's too hard to remember all of them. There is a sleek, strawberry blonde boy from District Four who seems to flirt with any female thing that moved, a tiny little wiry boy from Three who hardly looks older than Tanier, with big green eyes and mechanic's goggles pulled up to his forehead, as if he had just been welding when he realized it was the reaping. And then we see our faces, and I can't help feeling embarrassment at the shocked expression that was slapped across my mouth and brows when my name was called. But after that, I feel relatively all right about my performance. Ansel looks relatively uncomfortable when he hears the reporter say: "The Hunger Game's first blind contestant! This will certainly make things interesting; I wonder how long he'll last."

Maysilee notices his discomfort and changes the channel to a game show that involves getting hit in the face with a pie to win money. God, those Capitol people are idiots.

"Well," she says, "on the bright side, at least if there's more tributes, we'll have a smaller chance of… you know…"

I lean against the satin couch and sigh. "Yeah, but those goddamn careers are still going to kill anything that moves. It's not fair."

Ansel stares blankly at the embroidered wall. "I know how you feel, but someday… someday it'll all end, I know it. Anyway, that's why I volunteered."

"What do you mean?"

He shrugs. "I volunteered because I'd rather die knowing I've saved my brother instead of watching him struggle, knowing I could have done something to save him. Silence is the worst kind of violence."

Maysilee looks worried. "You don't know you're going to die…"

He smiles sadly and stands up. "I'm heading to bed; we have a big day ahead of us tomorrow, and I think we should all get some rest."


End file.
